


Redware

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Acts too unspeakable to mention, But only on the pottery, Dildos, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, F/M, First Time, Getting carried away with tags, M/M, Multi, Naughty Pottery, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rampant Shieldmaidens, Relatives offering unhelpful relationship advice, Threesome, Unfeasibly large Phalluses, performance anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to get a moment alone away from their chaperones, Eowyn and Faramir explore Minas Tirith shortly before their wedding. Sometimes a little bit of art history can prove... inspirational.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redware

A birthday present for Sian.

She was so beautiful, as striking as that first day in the garden when he had turned to see her standing tall and slender, her gold hair falling round her like flowing water, her face pale, almost luminous. She had taken his breath away then, and she still did so now.

Faramir looked across the room at Éowyn. She was deep in conversation with his Aunt. He found himself smiling. Somehow he doubted that his wild shieldmaiden had a great deal in common with that pillar of the Gondorian establishment, the Lady Ivriniel. But Éowyn was clearly trying hard to engage, and, to do his aunt justice, it did look as though Ivriniel was for once prepared to let her interlocutor get the occasional word in edgeways.

He thought back to the previous night's dinner. How different she had looked while talking to his uncle, sparkling wit and intelligence shining forth. But then she and Imrahil had been engrossed in a lively discussion of military tactics. Éowyn had outlined her views on mounted warfare, which, given that Imrahil had at his disposal the finest cavalry in Gondor, inevitably led to certain differences of opinion. Faramir had watched with as much attention as he would have given to a well-matched fencing match as the two of them engaged in verbal combat, both defending their position to the hilt, neither prepared to give an inch. But he had been able to tell that the argument was being conducted with good humour, and could see Éowyn's delight in encountering that rare beast (at least in his experience of the Gondorian court), a man prepared to treat her as his intellectual equal. 

His uncle in turn had talked of naval strategy, which clearly fascinated Éowyn, coming as she did from a land-locked nation. Faramir had been content to act as spectator, admiring both the keen wit Éowyn brought to bear in supporting her arguments, and the passionate light of battle in her eyes when she had to defend her own viewpoint. He had been amused when later that evening Imrahil, skilfully separating him from the throng for a moment, congratulated him on his good fortune. His uncle, a noted admirer of the female sex, had indicated his opinion that Faramir had somehow managed to find himself a “magnificent woman,” the clear implication being that his nephew was somehow playing well out of his league. Faramir grinned as he recalled this comment. He would not admit to it under pain of torture, for he would never hear the end of it from either Imrahil or his cousins, but he had to concede that he believed there to be a lot of truth in this view.

He wondered whether Imrahil would now say what he had said ten days earlier, concerning Éowyn. His uncle had taken him on one side for “a chat.” Faramir had wanted the ground to swallow him up. But his uncle, seemingly not noticing (or not caring about) his nephew's evident embarrassment, had pressed on regardless. Wives, he had explained, were not like mistresses who of course came to one's bed already knowing what to do. Wives, in contrast, had to be treated very gently, like precious porcelain, and wooed delicately. When Faramir raised an eyebrow at this metaphor, his uncle had reached for a more martial one instead. The younger man should, he said, think of his bride as a “finely bred, unbroken filly”, to be schooled gently. Faramir was pretty certain that now Imrahil had actually met Éowyn, he would realise that saying such a thing within her earshot would not be wise if he wished his head to remain on his shoulders.

Excruciating as that conversation had been, the one with Amrothos had, if anything, been even worse. It was only with great difficulty that he had been able to persuade his hellion of a cousin that, no, he really did not want to visit a brothel in the third circle for “one last blow out.” 

“Because, cousin,” Amrothos had said, “I know you all too well. You're the sort of virtuous dullard who will take the whole 'keeping himself only unto her' nonsense utterly seriously, so you might as well have one last night of fun (or maybe even two or three) before you tether yourself to the boredom of the marriage bed for all eternity.” It had been all Faramir could do not to box his cousin's ears, the way he would have done when they were younger.

Which was not to say he did not view the whole thing with a degree of uncertainty. He had, after all, had most of the last twelve months to think about it. His fantasies had ranged from gentle love making to wild passion and back, until he was really quite panicked about the thought of whether the reality could ever live up to the visions he had conjured in his mind, or indeed the performance his body could produce. He needed a sensible man to talk to, but who was there? Clearly not his uncle or his cousin. His king? He cringed inwardly at the thought. Quite aside from the fact that this was simply not the sort of thing one could ask one's king, when he looked at Elessar and Arwen, and more particularly Arwen, with her ethereal, other-worldy beauty, he could not actually quite believe that they lay together in the manner of men and, well, women. 

Perhaps the solution to his over-active imagination lay in spending more time with Éowyn. If they could only get some privacy to get comfortable in each other's company, for him to get the chance to hold her hand, maybe even kiss her again as he had that day on the walls, then they would not be pitched straight into the wedding night wholly unprepared.

Éowyn had been in Minas Tirith for a week now, and there was a full week to go until their wedding. And he had yet to get a chance to be alone with her. Yesterday, they had spent the whole afternoon wandering the length and breadth of the citadel with Aunt Ivriniel in attendance. It had proved a painful experience: Ivriniel had kept up her customary running commentary on the surroundings, and the shortcomings of everything from the street sweepers to the current women's fashions. He and Éowyn had hardly had a chance to talk at all.

Today, the meal finished, he managed to take his betrothed into the gardens with his cousins, Lothíriel and Erchirion, in attendance. At least today it seemed that he was going to have the chance to talk to her, the other pair deliberately hanging back out of earshot (though always within sight, as Erchirion had earlier taunted him that he would with a mixture of amusement and cheerful malice). But, much as he loved to talk with his bride-to-be, he was finding that the restrictions on their time together were, perversely, having quite the opposite effect to that intended by their benevolent gaolers: the more time they spent together, but denied the chance to embrace one another, the more that became the only thing he could think about. 

He offered her his arm, and the touch of her hand on his sleeve made him want to slip his arm around her waist, feeling the concave curve and the tempting swell of her hips below. He swallowed, trying to ignore the feelings of desire stirring low in his belly. Smiling at Éowyn, he placed his hand lightly on top of hers, and tried to answer the question she had just posed. She gave a chuckle.

“You have not listened to a word I've said these last minutes. You were miles away.”

Faramir apologised, and Éowyn repeated what she had just said. He managed this time to pay attention and come out with an answer that was almost coherent. But then as they turned a corner on the gravel path, her skirt brushed against his leg. Somehow, his mind's eye suddenly conjured an image of him pulling her onto his lap and it was as if he could feel her legs astride his. He thanked the Valar for the looseness of his tunic, and counted backwards from twenty in Quenya.

His mental state seemed to go unnoticed by Éowyn, or at least such was his belief. She paused beside a particularly beautiful magnolia tree. Watching her reach to pluck a blossom from a tree, her dress pulling taut across her bosom as she stretched, made him want to cup her soft breast in his hand, feeling its fullness swell beneath his palm. The soft sheen of the petals on the blossom as she held it up for inspection reminded him of her lips, soft and yielding beneath his.

This time he did not have to imagine what they would feel like, for his mind leapt back to a moment snatched in Edoras when they had managed to escape from the vigilance of their guardians for a moment. He had begun innocently enough by kissing her knuckles and gazing into her eyes, but then when she took half a step closer, he had succumbed to the temptation to brush his lips over hers. It had been a gentle, almost chaste kiss. He remembered watching as her eyelids fluttered shut, then as he drew back, opened once more, her eyes fixed on his, her lips parting slightly, moist, tempting. Without thinking what he was doing, he had placed his fingers lightly on the smooth skin of her cheeks and leaned in once more, this time teasing gently at her lips. And then suddenly the moment had seemed to get beyond their control. Her hands, which had been resting lightly on his forearms, reached out and tangled in his hair, and he could hear her breathing, shallow and rapid. His hands slipped from cradling her face, one to wrap round her back and pull her body tightly against him, the other to hold the back of her head, fingers buried in the rich, heavy, silken waves of her hair. He had heard her moan softly as he had slipped his tongue into her mouth, seeking out the welcoming heat, and she had kissed him back with an equal passion. Then he had trailed his lips down the smooth column of her neck, and traced out the neckline of her gown with hot kisses, while she in her turn had kissed the crown of his head. And somehow his hand had found its way onto the soft swell of her breast, and as he stroked it he felt, even through the thick fabric of her dress, the nipple harden beneath his palm.

“Faramir?”

He started, then realised his face was burning. Again he swallowed, and brought his eyes to meet Éowyn's gaze.

“I'm sorry, my love, I was lost in a memory,” he said, his voice sounding to his ear as if it was about to break. Éowyn gave an enigmatic smile, and took his hands in hers. Slowly and deliberately, she began to circle her thumbs against his palms.

“What memory?” she said softly. There was a look in her eyes that he could not quite place, but that drew him towards her like a moth to a flame. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Again, he realised he was blushing furiously. Éowyn moved slightly closer, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

“A memory of Edoras, perhaps?” She smiled, and finally he saw the look in her eyes for what it was: desire. There was a long moment of silence. Faramir could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He seemed to have been struck dumb, and cursed himself for a clumsy fool. It was Éowyn who eventually spoke once more.

“Your cousins seem to have got distracted by the carp in the ornamental pond...” Her voice trailed off, and she stood expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

At last Faramir found his voice. “This way...” And he seized her hand, leading her through a low stone archway into the next courtyard, then down a dark corridor. He had no clear plan in mind, simply an overwhelming need to be alone with his beloved. But before he could decide which turning to take next, he heard Amrothos' baritone, echoing from the courtyard outside.

“Which way have they gone? Our dear, darling Aunt Ivvy will kill us if she finds out we've left them unchaperoned. Though quite what harm it could do this close to the wedding I fail to see.” Faramir heard Lothíriel give a great snort of laughter at the tone in which her brother spoke of their “dear, darling aunt.” Amrothos continued, “Besides which, poor unworldly, scholarly Fara is quite the gentleman...” The corner of Faramir's mouth gave an involuntary twitch upwards at this assessment. Clearly the rumours that Imrahil's children had inherited the Elvish ability to read minds were somewhat exaggerated. 

“Quick, in here,” he whispered, opening the heavy oak door nearest to them. They scuttled through it, shutting it as quietly as they could behind them, and stood in the gloomy light from three high, lancet windows.

For a moment, Faramir's attention was on the sounds from the corridor outside. Had his cousins seen the two of them duck into the room? He was suddenly drawn back into the present by a gasp from Éowyn. He turned to see her staring wide eyed at the pottery on the shelf behind. Oh Valar! To his horror, he realised what must be contained within the room they had hastily chosen. The collection of decorated porcelain vases of Alcarin, most decadent of all ancient Gondor's rulers. He swallowed hard – his mind flitted back to the day, when he was but fifteen years old, when he and Boromir had stumbled upon them. He remembered his reaction, an uncomfortable mixture of shock and arousal, and Boromir's amusement at his discomfiture. Predictably, Boromir had simply muttered something about “Must try that one next time I visit the outer circle of the city.” 

What would Éowyn think? She was a noble maiden of virtue. However much he might have been dreaming of a few snatched kisses and a passionate embrace, Amrothos was right: his intentions were honourable. He had not intended to go beyond the bounds of decency. And the last thing he wanted was to frighten her before their wedding by these coarse references to the marital act. Oh, by Oromë, what if she thought that he had deliberately chosen this room, that this was some act of seduction on his part. He followed her gaze to the vase nearest them on the shelf. And his eyes went as wide as Eowyn's. He took a deep breath, trying against all the odds to calm himself.

The depiction was, he had to concede, beautifully drawn. The furthest away of the three figures, a middle aged, balding man, lay beneath the covers, his head on a pillow, fast asleep. The woman who reclined against him had the edge of the sheet drawn over her torso, but so casually as to expose the gentle swell of her breast, though not, Faramir realised, the nipple. That was left to the viewer's imagination, to think on what was hidden beneath the covers, just waiting for a hand to slide beneath the fabric. He took another deep breath and tried to ignore the desire coiling in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the part of the picture which had captured Éowyn's attention. At the woman's feet, a male figure knelt. Her hand was extended, holding his wrist delicately, steering his hand towards her body, which lay ready for his caress. Her feet, her legs, her most intimate parts... these were not covered. Her legs lay parted, her body open, waiting for her lover, who knelt ready, partly swathed in a cloak. But the cloak opened to reveal his naked chest, hips, legs... very erect member at the ready. Oh gods... suppose Éowyn expected _him_ to be that size... Oh hell, that was not at all the appropriate thing to think at this juncture. But gods, there was the woman he loved and desired, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, and they were both looking at this picture – he felt his breeches become uncomfortably tight.

Hardly daring to look, he sneaked a sidelong glance at Éowyn. She stood, rapt. Apparently unaware of her own reaction, he saw her tongue flick between her lips, then run along her lower lip. Then he heard a sharp hiss of breath. He saw her eyes slide along the shelf to the next image... A man stood behind a woman. Her arm was thrown up and back, stretching round his head as it dipped towards her, his lips meeting her neck. Her face was an expression of sheer rapture, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. One of his hands cupped her breast from beneath, thumb and fingers teasing the nipple. The other guided his cock ( _oh gods, another huge cock_ ) into her body. Faramir could feel himself trembling with need. What should he say? He didn't trust himself to speak. He knew that honour dictated he remove them both from this situation as soon as possible. But he was rooted to the spot. And what if his cousins were still outside? Then Éowyn's voice, sounding slightly ragged, interrupted his panicky thoughts.

“Two women... I never thought...” Once more, he followed her gaze. Two lithe, soft, beautiful female forms, limbs languorously entwined, the one with her head upon the other's breast, both pairs of eyes focussed on the hands of one as she... _Oh gods, that was huge too!_ The hands slid a carved object inside the other woman's passage... And the beauty of the drawing – he could sense the slow, gentle, sensuous movements, the women's faces somehow almost calm and serene, at odds with the eroticism of the act.

He turned to look at Éowyn once more. She studied each vase in turn. The woman leaning on the edge of the bathtub as her lover took her from behind, hand reaching round to slip his fingers between the soft folds of skin at the base of her mound. A man suckling a woman's breast as he entered her, her nipple teased to a peak between his lips. A woman gently tugging at the tie holding another woman's robe, the cloth parting to give a tantalising glimpse of the triangular nest of curls, the first woman's hand reaching towards those curls, fingers slender and delicate, promising a touch of exquisite pleasure. A woman with her leg wrapped round a man's waist as he pressed his hard length into her, a second woman, body sinuously moulded against the man's back, one shapely hand on the man's shoulder, the other dipping between her legs to pleasure herself as she watched the coupling. Two men... _oh gods, two men and I in a state of arousal_ , Faramir thought, his mouth becoming dry... the taller with his hand on the taut muscles of the other's back, his other hand easing his cock between his lover's buttocks, both faces the image of wanton ecstasy.

Suddenly, Éowyn turned beside him. _She's looking towards the door,_ he thought. _She wants to leave... oh, how this must have shocked her... how will I ever talk to her of this? Should I ever talk to her of this?_ He managed to speak, and it seemed to him that his voice came out in a harsh croak.

“You are right, my love, we should go... I am sorry you had to see this... But my cousins... The coast should be clear now.”

Éowyn looked at him, her eyes dark and unreadable, then dropped her gaze. He watched her lips part, and caught a glimpse of her tongue.. Then she raised her face, her expression unmistakable, the need and desire he felt reflected in her look, and he swallowed hard. She spoke, her voice shaky.

“Nay, I looked to the door to see... if there was a key in the lock on the inside...”

Quickly, she turned and took two swift paces to the door. Her hand closed on the large iron key, and the lock clicked into place as she turned it. Faramir followed her, reaching out towards her as she turned. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, their lips came together, bodies crashing against one another, hands tangling in hair, running over shoulders, clinging tight to one another. They took a stumbling step, and Faramir found himself pressing Éowyn against the wall. He tried to pull back so as not to crush her, but her arms were tight around his back, her strength, he suddenly realised, almost equal to a man's.

Faramir found the world contracted to a point centred on the two of them. All was simply sensation, with no room for thought or words. He was not consciously aware of how they removed each other's clothes, simply of hands – his, hers... they seemed to meld into one – working feverishly on ties and laces. Then he felt her shoulders bare beneath his palms, felt her hands on his naked back, felt the heat of her skin against his. Oh gods, the heat of her skin, the feel of her nipples, no longer covered in fabric beneath his hesitant hand, but bare against his own chest, hard as pebbles. How... how had her hand come to rest on his buttocks... his naked buttocks? She pulled him against her for a moment, then pulled back a hairsbreadth, giving a wriggle of her hips. He heard the swoosh of fabric as her dress slipped to the floor, and felt the whole length of her body pressed up against his.

The faintest hint of hesitation passed his mind. Should this not be taking place slowly, reverently, gently, upon their marriage bed, him easing himself within her with tender care? But Éowyn lifted one leg, tangling it round his thigh, and pushed herself against him. Losing all rational thought once more, Faramir found his hands sliding down to her arse. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her up, pressing her back against the wall as she wrapped her legs around him, kissing him fiercely, this time her tongue within his mouth.

“Éowyn... I... Do you not want to wait?” He somehow managed to get the words out, holding himself just short of her welcoming body, his arms trembling with the strain.

“Don't stop. By all the Valar, don't stop now.” Her breath was hot against his ear, her hand knotted in his hair. He felt her heels dig into his buttocks, felt the power and strength in her legs as she pulled him closer. With a moan, he felt himself slip inside her warm, welcoming depth, sheathed within her. Her body tensed for just a moment, then she let out a long, ragged breathy gasp. 

“Ah, Faramir, yes...” Then he was lost, utterly lost. The point where their bodies joined was the whole world, their movements the axis on which it spun, the growing, overwhelming pleasure the sun rising over the horizon. He heard Éowyn's breathing, short and ragged gasps, inarticulate noises spurring him on. Then she called his name once, twice, the third time rising in pitch to turn into a whimper of pleasure, before he too fell over the edge into oblivion.

Spent, the two of them slid down the wall and came to rest in an untidy heap on the floor, trembling within each other's arms. They lay there for long moments, limbs tangled together, her head on his shoulder. Gradually the tremors subsided. Faramir buried his face in Éowyn's hair, breathing in the scent of blossom. He smiled as he realised that, as always, the flowery smell was mixed with a faint hint of horse. A feeling of utter contentment came over him. Eventually, she stirred slightly and moved her head so she could look at him. On her face was a look of peaceful, quiet happiness, and she raised her fingers to brush his cheek, before smiling, surely the most dazzling smile he had ever seen. He wrapped his arms round her as tightly as he could, wanting to somehow become one with her entirely, his heart feeling like it might leap out of his chest at any moment.

“I love you.” His voice came out in a strange, choked tone.

“And I love you.” She snuggled back into his shoulder. It was many more moments before either spoke again.

“So, your cousins' chaperonage did not entirely work...” Éowyn observed.

“Not entirely? Not at all, I would have said.”

Éowyn laughed, and ran her hand over his arm. Faramir looked at her, then spoke, slightly hesitantly.

“Do you regret it? What we have just done?”

Éowyn gave him a look of utter disbelief. “How could I possibly regret that? The only possible regret I could have is that we have wasted nearly a year getting to this point. A year when we could have been doing that as frequently as possible, if only our families did not think they knew better and had not put so much effort into getting us to behave in a properly decorous manner.”

“I think I prefer being indecorous,” he replied, then ducked his head towards hers and kissed her, lightly at first, but then more lingeringly. Again they snuggled in companionable silence for a while, before Faramir spoke again, a slightly uncertain tone in his voice once more.

“You know, I had completely forgotten what was in this room... I would hate you to think I planned this, that this was part of a deliberate seduction...”

Éowyn started to laugh, quietly at first, then gradually her giggles got louder until she was curled up in the crook of his arm, helpless. Faramir felt first nonplussed at this reaction, then slightly hurt. Catching sight of his expression, Éowyn managed to check her laughter, giving a gulping hiccup.

“Oh my beloved, my foolish, foolish man. I cannot for a moment imagine you guilty of a deliberate seduction... though I am glad you managed to achieve such a passionate accidental seduction.” She ran her hand across the hair on his chest, and Faramir felt a stirring of renewed desire. “Though those vases... my! I grew up surrounded by stallions and mares, the Mark is hardly renowned for its prudery, but even so. Never in my most fevered dreams have I conjured up some of the scenes on those vases.”

The words were out before Faramir realised he'd said them. “I worried that you might expect me to be... like the men on the vases.” He felt his cheeks flame as he realised what he had said.

Éowyn gave him a soft smile, then stroked his face. “Faramir... I have seen naked men before.” Faramir's eyes opened wide. He gave a gasp. “Not like that,” she said, a strange combination of amusement and a frown crossing her face. “Certainly not at as close quarters, or in quite such a state as you were but a few moments ago. But I have seen men swimming in summer. I know that those vases are... Well, if men really were that size, I don't see how it would fit. Either widthways, or in terms of length.” Her gaze rested on one of the nearer pieces of pottery, and she said, in a contemplative voice, “I mean, if he got all of that inside her, it would go all the way up to her rib cage. I don't see where the pleasure could possibly be in that.”

Faramir could not help himself: he gave a snort of laughter. How could he have forgotten the pragmatic streak of the average Rohir? But Éowyn's interest was clearly piqued now.

“And the women... why her waist is barely wider than the girth of his cock. And her breasts. They're the size of … what was that fruit we saw in the market yesterday? Melons? I think the climate of the Mark is too cold for them to grow there. In any case, if a woman really was that shape, she'd either snap the first time he tried to embrace her, or topple over because her balance was so far off.”

By now Faramir had his face buried in Éowyn's hair once more, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“And no-one could possibly be that flexible. We had some travelling acrobats pass through Edoras last Yule, and even they could not have bent themselves into that position... So many limbs... I'm not sure which limbs belong to which person... Surely they couldn't keep their balance. They would all topple over...” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to realise Faramir was now beside himself with laughter, and she too was caught up in the moment, giggling helplessly once more. 

Faramir, feeling her snuggle back against him, started to kiss her amidst their laughter, and gradually the giggles subsided to be replaced by a slow, sensual warmth growing deep within him, seemingly matched by her change in mood. He paused for a moment to gaze on her once more, his hand trailing languorously from shoulder to breast to the curve of her belly, before sliding round her hip. Her eyes closed for a moment, then she let her head loll back against the wall. Faramir admired the beautiful line of her neck, stretched out as if to tempt him to trail kisses along it. Her lips parted slightly, and he realised she too was feeling desire once more. A sudden thought struck him – would he be able to make love to her again so soon? He decided to take his time, and bent his head, licking his tongue slowly across the dark pink around her nipple. He stole a glance upwards.

Her eyelids fluttered open. She looked first at him, then her attention seemed to be drawn by something on one of the shelves. Quite suddenly, she stiffened slightly against him.

He followed her gaze to another vase, one they had not noticed in their earlier examination, and now his eyes widened in shock.

“Would you wish to do that?” Her voice was hesitant, all traces of desire seemingly evaporated like morning mist.

Faramir gave an involuntary shudder. “Not in this lifetime or the next. It looks grotesque.” He felt her body soften within his grasp.

“Thank the Valar,” she whispered, then gave another chuckle. “Grotesque indeed.” She cradled his head back against her breast once more. Then he heard another gasp, but quite different in tenor. “Now that, on the other hand, looks most interesting.” And her hand started to make its way quite purposefully over the hard muscles of his belly, down towards his groin. Faramir gulped , then, as her hand moved lower still, realised that there was nothing to worry about concerning his readiness for the task... in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Ancient Greek redware pottery in my local museum which is rather tame... but it reminded me of the very much more explicit collection in the British Museum, which in turn put me in mind of their exhibition of Japanese Shunga earlier this year. I imagine Alcarin's pottery to be a combination of the two.
> 
> And as for the "act too unspeakable to mention" referred to in the tags... well, as my undergraduate maths text books used to say, "That is left as an exercise for the reader."
> 
> Published under "fair use" legislation governing transformative works, and as "creative commons" - i.e. any redistribution should acknowledge me as author and should NOT be for commercial gain. This work should not be posted to other sites without my express permission.


End file.
